Page 64 of Better Hate than Never

“Meaning what?”

He eases onto the stool I gesture toward, the one I’ve had everyone sit on to take their photo. “Meaning lots of things. Women’s rights are human rights,” he says. “Diversity and inclusion isn’t something you phone in for brownie points but work your ass off to actually achieve. We don’t just invest in companies committed to that ethos, we embody it ourselves. Verona Capital offers its employees fully paid insurance covering and affirming their right to all procedures and medications their bodies need, extended paid sick leave and work-from-home accommodations, menstrual leave,extended parental leave, subsidized daycare and pre-K, zero tolerance for harassment, an ADA-certified accessible workplace, dedicated lactation rooms, gender-neutral bathrooms... You get the idea, I think.”

Lifting my camera, I plant my forearms against my nipples, which are rock hard. Goddamn, that shit turns me on.

“Well,” I manage, scowling as I flick through my camera screen’s display, not even seeing the photos I’ve taken, “it’s the least you could do. It’s what everyone should do.”

“Completely agree.”

I clench my teeth. Great. Not only is he making me horny with his progressivism—he’sagreeingwith me.

“You seem flushed, Kate.”

I shrug, then clear my throat. “Just a little warm.”

His grin is slow and satisfied. He knows exactly how he’s affected me, and it’s so damn irritating. “I can open a window,” he offers.

“I’m fine.”

I’m clutching my camera so hard it’s going to crack. I let it drop around my neck, telling myself to cool down. So what if he can tell what he said turned me on? Turning on people is as unremarkable to Christopher as the sun lighting up the sky.

Which is just one of the many ways we are so deeply different. Sex is effortless and central in his life, his expertise and enjoyment of it a given. Sex is anything but effortless for me, my attempts to enjoy it fraught with misunderstanding and disappointment.

Christopher leans in, elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together, bringing him closer to me, a shock jolting me back to the present. Our eyes meet.

A flush sweeps through me as his gaze holds mine. Maybe it’s because it’s so rare for me, but the intensity of this sexual pull I feel toward him nearly knocks the air out of me. I stare back at him,struggling to make sense of the weighty warmth settling in my breasts, deep in my belly, and between my thighs.

I haven’t liked Christopher in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t known him. It doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed him. Yes, he’s familiar, his scent, his voice, his presence—something I’ve known my whole life—but shouldn’t it take more? A lifetime of existing in my sphere, a few days being nice to me, and my body’s throwing itself at him. It’s unacceptable. And frankly, it’s unsettling.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he finally says.

Squaring my shoulders, I try to rein my body in. “Revolutionary as this idea might be for you, Petruchio, some things cannot be bought.”

He tips his head, grinning. He’s such a flirt. “No? How are they... acquired, then?”

I stare at him, despising and also despicably enjoying how warm I am, the sweet-sharp ache ebbing through me. “They must be earned.”

“Earned,” he says softly, an appreciative grin warming his face. “Hmm.”

Leaning so close I can feel the heat of his body, he peers up at me, brow furrowed, jaw tight. His throat works with a swallow. Mine does, too. Every inch of me isawareof him, goose bumps dancing across my skin. I feel my fierce blush creeping up my throat.

What is this? Does he feel what I feel? He’s so experienced in a woman’s pleasure that he has to recognize the signs—the way I’ve subtly pinned my thighs together to relieve the ache between them, how I’ve rolled back my shoulders, hoping I can shake off the hot, heavy waves of desire coursing through my body.

Does he stare at me like this, watching what he does to me, because it interestshim? Does he want me?

As if anyone could not want you.

I haven’t let myself dwell on what he said the other night. Because I’m scared I might latch on to those words. Count on them. Hope in them.

That sobering thought finally makes me step back. I scoop up my camera and put it between us, focusing on Christopher through the lens, adjusting and angling myself to capture the best light.

I grunt in frustration as I bring him into focus.

His cheeks are swept with a hint of pink, like he’s hot, too, but otherwise, his expression is smooth, unreadable. “That bad, huh?”

The camera drops around my neck. “Some people look fresh as a daisy seven hours into their workday. You are not one of them.”

He laughs tightly, raking a hand through his hair again. “Thank you, Katerina.”

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